


What Makes a House a Home

by ddagent



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: (practically), F/M, Living Together, Marriage Proposal, Post Finale, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 16:13:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15998789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddagent/pseuds/ddagent
Summary: Molesley is struggling to adapt to life outside the big house. Regular visits from Miss Baxter help.





	What Makes a House a Home

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Downton Abbey or any of its characters, or its settings - all belongs to the lovely folks at the ITV Studios.
> 
> One of my very last fics from NaNoWriMo last year! I hope you enjoy.

When Joseph Molesley said he missed the big house, it wasn’t _exactly_ meant with wholehearted affection. He missed three square meals a day; dinner cooked by Mrs Patmore rather than his own, unsteady hand. He missed the comradery; the joy of a house full of people instead of his quiet, empty cottage. He missed Miss Baxter’s gentle touch on loose thread. _He missed Miss Baxter altogether_. It wasn’t that Molesley wasn’t glad of his work, or of the chance to leave the duties of Service. But there were gaps in his life that he couldn't quite fill.

It was why he was so thrilled to see Miss Baxter waiting on his doorstep one sunny afternoon; his classes for the day now complete. He smiled as he approached, slipping the cap from his head. “Miss Baxter.”

“Mister Molesley.”

She was a sight for sore eyes: hat snug around her ears to ward off the April chill; arms full with her familiar sewing basket. It had been a long, _long_ week since they had last seen each other; downstairs once again for His Lordship’s birthday party. Yet, despite it only being seven days since they had last clapped eyes on each other, they drew the other in like they had been apart for months.

Two of his students raced past on their way home, breaking the spell over them. Molesley cleared his throat. “What brings you here, Miss Baxter?”

She smiled. “At the party last week, you mentioned your jacket buttons were coming loose. I’ve come to mend them.”

“Oh, right!” They exchanged another smile as Molesley gently skirted around Miss Baxter so he could open the front door. “Do come in; make yourself at home. I’ll put on a pot of tea.”

Miss Baxter followed him inside. The cottage was small but sturdy; a large bookcase dominating one wall and a tiny kitchen in the back. Perfect for a single schoolteacher. Molesley left Miss Baxter to her own devices as he put water in the kettle, and tried to find a fresh packet of biscuits. When he reappeared in the sitting room, tea tray in hand, Miss Baxter was already halfway through fixing the ripped cuffs of the jacket hanging on his peg.

“I’ll get the rest.” He slipped into the bedroom to find the rest of his laundry; he folded them quickly and brought them out in a neat pile. He then sat, perched on the edge of the cushion; unsure what to do with himself.

“Don’t mind me, Mister Molesley,” she said, laying her needle and thread to one side in favour of a custard cream. “I’m sure you have some work to do.”

His head bobbed up and down. “I do! Thank you, Miss Baxter. For the sewing.”

“It’s a pleasure.”

And so they sat: Mister Molesley working through his marking, and Miss Baxter on her sewing. It was a companionable silence; only broken by soft words spoken over cups of weak tea. It was _wonderful._ When Miss Baxter had to return to the Abbey for the evening meal, Molesley let her go with great reluctance.

\--

So began a series of after school meetings. Miss Baxter would wait on his doorstep, or sometimes meet him at the school gate. They would talk over a cup of tea; he would mark and she would sew. More teabags were added to his order at the village shop; better biscuits, too. The guest armchair was now – at least in his mind – Miss Baxter’s chair. She had her own teacup and saucer as well. Molesley found himself counting the minutes until the school bell rang and he could see her again.

Then, one Saturday afternoon, Miss Baxter found him strolling through the village and offered to accompany him. They walked back to his cottage together. Inside, Molesley prepared the tea. But when he stepped back into the siting room, Miss Baxter wasn’t in her usual chair. She was at the bookshelf, duster in hand; pulling the books from their holdings.

“Miss Baxter?”

She spun on her heel; a stripe of dust smeared adorably across one cheek. She bowed her head. “Apologies, Mister Molesley, but I’ve been staring at your lovely bookshelves for weeks now, and can’t help but notice they need a jolly good clean. It is spring, after all.” She smiled. “The perfect time for a good clean.”

Two pink spots blotted his cheeks when faced with proof of his slapdash housekeeping. But there was no judgement, only a desire to help. Molesley put the tea tray to one side and picked up another duster. “Two pairs of hands are better than one, Miss Baxter.”

Together they went through his bookshelf; cleaning the shelves and wiping the books clean. Miss Baxter enquired after many of the tomes; Molesley talking animatedly about the ones he’d read, and offering to lend the ones that brought the biggest smile to her face. After the bookshelf was done, they attended to the rest of the cottage until the air was clear and the dusters black. They shared a laugh as Molesley poured cold tea down the sink; only stopping when they noticed the time. He walked Miss Baxter back to the house, choosing to focus on her rather than the path ahead. An unfortunate decision, as his foot fell in a rabbit hole.

“Oh, Mister Molesley,” she chided, shaking her head as she wrapped an arm around his; to steady him if nothing else. “Next time I’m at the cottage, I’ll stitch up your knees. Must have you looking presentable.”

It was moments like these that he savoured and replayed when he was alone. When he felt cared for, even loved, by a woman as incredible as Miss Baxter. Luck had never been in his corner, but he felt it with her. The luckiest, most loved man in all of the country. When Miss Baxter wasn’t patching his clothes, she was helping keep his cottage clean. When she wasn’t cleaning, she was helping him with dinner. Ever since a plate of leftovers had turned her an unnatural shade of green, Miss Baxter had increased her visits to ensure he did not poison himself with a roast chicken. Even if it was just to avoid seeing him ill, he was glad of her presence.  

One evening, over a plate of boiled ham and potatoes, Molesley could not contain his happiness for a moment longer. “I really enjoy your company, Miss Baxter.”

He could be mistaken for thinking the sun had risen, so was the power of Miss Baxter’s smile. “I really enjoy your company too, Mister Molesley.”

Dinner continued in relative silence; broken not by words but soft smiles that spoke volumes. Yet, at the end of dinner, he had to escort her back to the big house. Every night he had to do so pierced his heart a little more. He wanted Miss Baxter to stay in his – practically _their_ – cottage forever.

He knew what he needed to do.

\-- 

A week later, Mister Molesley left his classroom to find Miss Baxter waiting at the school gate. The weather had turned warm; there was no need for hat or coat. Yet he found himself trembling as he approached her; his arm shaking as he held it out for her to take. They followed their normal routine: a walk to the cottage; a pot of tea with a plate of biscuits; light conversation whilst they carried out their afternoon duties. But an outsider would be forgiven for thinking Molesley had never entertained company in his life. Tea spilled over the side of cups. Biscuits crunched under poorly placed saucers. Molesley stammered over his words until he begged himself to shut up.

“Are you alright, Mister Molesley?” Miss Baxter asked later when he had nearly sliced through his thumb chopping vegetables. “You’ve been somewhere else all afternoon.”

“I-I’m fine,” he lied; sweat building under his armpits and knees knocking together. “Just hungry, I ‘spose.”

Miss Baxter stared, eyes narrow; as if she didn’t believe him. But they continued through the motions of their daily routine; preparing a casserole and laying the table. They ate in silence. Well, Miss Baxter ate. He just pushed around chunks of lamb and carrot until the clock over the mantle began to chime.

“It’s that time again,” Miss Baxter said, smiling at him across the table. “Would you mind escorting me home, Mister Molesley?”

This was it. _I hope your luck holds true, Joseph._ “What if you didn’t have to leave, Miss Baxter?”

She chuckled. “I think Mister Barrow would have something to say about that.”

“I meant, what if you didn’t _always_ have to leave. What if you could stay here?” He swallowed, his empty stomach gurgling with nerves. “What if you lived here?”

“As your—“

“As my wife.”

Three words, spoken bolder than any he had ever said, were all that stood between him and true happiness. Molesley had expected time to stand still as he waited for Miss Baxter’s answer. In truth, it took barely a second before she reached across the table and brushed her lips against his cheek.

“I would like that very much, Mister Molesley.” She sat back in her chair; cheeks pink and eyes bright. “I would very much like to be your wife.”

Trembling, he reached across the table to take the hand of his betrothed. He pressed his lips to her knuckles, his heart bursting. “I would very much like to be your husband, Miss Baxter.”

Both wanted to stay in the moment forever. But Miss Baxter was required elsewhere. Together they walked up to the big house hand in hand. Soon this walk would not be required. Soon Miss Baxter would meet him after school as she always did. They would eat, talk, laugh. Miss Baxter would continue her duties as a ladies maid. But afterwards he would be waiting to walk her home. 

To _their_ home.


End file.
